The Camping Trip from Heck
by owlcroft
Summary: Yes, it's another vacation gone awry and McCormick ends up in the hospital yet again.


A/N: This story is dedicated to all those who've taken up pen (or keyboard) to continue the tradition of our guys never having an ordinary, boring vacation.

THE CAMPING TRIP FROM HECK

by

Owlcroft

McCormick groaned as he lifted the portable television into the back of the truck. He stretched and bent to get the kinks out of his back, then spotted the judge coming out of the house.

"Is it really necessary," he called, "to take a battery-powered TV with us?"

"You betcha," grinned Hardcastle. "Wouldn't miss the _Guns of Iwo Jima_ for anything, not even a trip to Carlsgood Caverns." He clapped his hands together and inventoried the items in the truck bed. "Let's see, the cooler with the food, sleeping bags, flashlights, toilet paper, bug spray, medical kit—hey, did ya get the maraschino cherries?"

"Yes, Judge," said McCormick wearily, "and the little paper umbrellas and the little corn dog appetizers. Can we just get this story on the road, please?" He continued to load the truck – fishing rods and creel went in, air mattresses, curling iron, popcorn maker, mai tai mix, duffel bags stuffed with parrot shirts, kerosene lanterns, an electric can opener, mosquito netting, a toolbox, and an acetylene torch.

"Ah, the simple life," the judge beamed at the truck, sagging on its axles from the weight. "I tell ya, kiddo, getting back to nature is what's important. Being out in the wilds with only your bare hands and a canteen. Oh, hey, you remembered the canteen, didn't ya?"

Mark scowled at him. "No room," he said briefly. "That and the watch batteries will have to go up front with us."

ooooo

The drive to the Canyon of Doom took only four hours with McCormick at the wheel. While the judge made occasional remarks about speed traps and obeying the law, he privately delighted in Mark's heedlessness and risky passing maneuvers.

"Hey, you took off that guy's bumper," he said severely. "Dont'cha think we oughta stop and swap insurance info?" _What a kid_, he thought. _Always up to something wacky. My life would be empty without this lovable ex-con around, keeping me occupied with bailing him outta trouble._

McCormick slanted a glance at him. "What insurance? I don't have any after that seven-car freeway pile-up in rush hour, remember? That was the one where we busted Henry Perkins for littering." He slowed down to 95 briefly to allow an armadillo to scamper across the road, then pressed the needle back up to 120. "Besides, we're taking long enough as it is to get to the plot. Without all those little o's, we'd still be back in the first section, loading the truck."

"Yeah, okay. I guess you're right." Hardcastle shaded his eyes with a palm, then pointed up and to the right. "There it is. That's the turn-off. I'm telling ya, kiddo. This is gonna be a camping trip to remember!"

Mark sighed, flipped on the right turn signal, and careened through the turn. "Look, Hardcastle. All I'm planning on is a simple sprained ankle, a flash flood, and a scorpion. Then you help me limp out to civilization, with both of us saying a coupla goopy things and we're home again. Let's not over-do this, okay?"

"I know, I know," replied the judge grumpily. "But there have to be some lines where the reader hears the threatening music, ya know!"

ooooo

After the truck was unloaded, the tent set up, a fire started, and water collected for afternoon tea, the twosome settled down to some serious fishing.

"Judge," called McCormick from his chosen spot upstream from Hardcastle, "you ever think about the serious stuff in life?"

The judge considered that for a moment, casting his line dangerously close to McCormick. "Whaddya mean? Like whether there's life after death, or what we're here for, or the nature of reality?"

"Nah," said Mark, dodging another errant cast, "I mean like if somebody writes an alternate universe fanfic, does the reader have to remember it when they read something completely opposite to it in _real _fanfic?"

"What the hell's fanfic?" asked the judge, irritably disentangling his line from an overhanging tree branch.

McCormick sighed and shook his head. "Never mind. It's not important." He lurched suddenly and grimaced. "Ow!"

Hardcastle looked askance at him. "Isn't this a little early?"

"Oh, darn! I think I punctured my foot on a sharp rock." Mark limped to the shoreline disconsolately.

"Nah," said the judge consolingly. "It's probably my fish hook. It'll add to the guilt trip later. You'll get a horrible infection from the bait I was using. Hey!" His face brightened. "That could take the place of the sprained ankle."

Mark looked at him, foreboding writ deep in his expression. "What _were _you using for bait, anyway?" He lowered himself to a convenient boulder and removed his shoe and the fishhook with the ease of practice.

"Ah, just some rotten meat we had left over from a few weeks back." Hardcastle prodded the injured foot carefully. "Yeah, that's deep enough. Whaddya say we call it a day with the fishing and sit around the campfire and say a buncha sappy stuff? Then we can head home."

McCormick examined his wound intently. "Okay. But you hafta say most of the sappy stuff. You're better at it, 'cause you get more practice in all those hospital scenes."

ooooo

"So, anyway, that's why I find it hard to say stuff like that." Hardcastle glanced up at a suspiciously quiet McCormick. "Aw, c'mon! Don't pull that 'I'm-pretending-to-be-asleep' thing on me again. I'm not falling for it this time!"

"Whassat?" yawned McCormick. "I musta dropped off there for a minute. You're really boring when you get talking about when you were a kid, y'know."

"Yeah, well, at least that part's done," grumbled the judge. "Hey, how's your foot? Isn't it about time for you to start moaning and getting a fever or something?"

"Probably," Mark admitted. "But I've forgotten the exact symptoms, so can we just skip that bit and go right to the part where you have to haul me out of here?"

"Sorry, kiddo, can't do it." Hardcastle grinned at the younger man. "Timeline says it's night and the big scene's set for daylight."

McCormick made a face. "You can't seriously believe anybody's paying that much attention!" He shrugged then leaned back comfortably. "Okay, fine. I'll tell you all about my childhood and you can make enigmatic remarks about Tommy. Deal?"

The judge nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, then we can have a few flashbacks, do a little reminiscing, make some portentous remarks. Hey! I never told ya about how I got my tattoo! That's always a big item on fan forums!"

"I thought you didn't know anything about fan forums," Mark said accusingly.

Hardcastle spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Look, consistency isn't exactly a big hallmark here, okay?"

ooooo

"Keep that tourniquet on, kiddo," snapped Hardcastle as he casually shot another rattlesnake. "Those buzzards are getting real close."

Mark moaned desolately. "Oh, why did I try to tattoo myself?"

"Hang in there," the judge said tenderly. "I'll take care of ya. You know I won't let anything happen to you." He stroked the curly hair, catching several strands in the trigger of Ol' Millie. "Oops, sorry."

"Wait a minute!" McCormick sat up suddenly. "How did we get out here in the middle of the desert? I mean, one minute we're sitting around a campfire and the next . . ."

Hardcastle chuckled at his friend's puzzled expression. "It's those little o's, remember? They signify a break in the story. Real convenient for the authors, but confusing as censored for the characters involved. Now, you hang on to the travois while I sweat and swear, dragging you to safety."

"How did you pronounce that?" Mark grabbed the branches that served as poles for the travois the judge had rigged up. "Trav-oys or travwha?"

The judge stopped and scratched his head, dropping McCormick flat on the rocky surface of the desert floor. "Hmm. I think I always say 'travwha' in all the other stories. You know, rhymes with bushwah."

"What's bushwah?" Mark asked from his supine position.

Hardcastle picked up the poles of the travwah and began to trudge again. "It's a word for the round things that cattle leave behind in pastures. You know. Oomwagamoo."

"Could you start speaking in English?" Mark complained. "I don't speak whatever language you're talking."

"It's an old joke," puffed the judge, hauling the injured man carefully over a bed of cactus. "See, this politician goes to an Indian reservation--"

"Hold it! You can't tell that joke!" McCormick picked up a scorpion from the blanket covering his feverish form and threw it aside. "It's not politically correct."

"'Course I can! I'm part Cherokee. Just like you can tell the one about the Irishman who goes into a bar." Hardcastle stopped briefly to take a sip of mai-tai from the canteen slung around his neck.

"Wait a minute," Mark protested. "That's ethnic stereotyping."

The judge dabbed at his lips with a colorfully-embellished cocktail napkin, then picked up the poles of the travwah again. "So? We've already had a go-around with the ACLU. You think I'm gonna worry about being politically correct?"

"And where'd you get the branches for this thing anyway?" McCormick wiped the sweat from his fevered brow and remembered to moan again, pitifully. "We're in the middle of the desert in this segment."

"That's the author's problem, not mine." Hardcastle plodded on, through rattlers, scorpions, and maddened armadillos specially imported at great expense just for the occasion.

ooooo

When McCormick awoke from his coma, he found the judge sitting at his bedside, a worried expression on his face.

"Oh, no," Mark groaned. "Not again!"

Hardcastle patted his hand tenderly. "'Fraid so, kiddo. But look on the bright side. With a skip like that in the plot, the author's gotta be getting tired of this story. So, there's probably only a coupla more paragraphs and we're done."

"Okay, get it over with." McCormick took a deep breath, fell backward onto the paper-thin hospital pillow and languished, pallidly.

The judge assumed a sappy expression and patted Mark's hand again. "You had me worried there, kiddo," he said in a patently fake gruff tone. "But I knew you wouldn't let a major infection, three snake bites and a bad case of hives do you in."

"Oh, Judge," replied Mark weakly. "I don't remember a thing. No, wait. That's not right. Wait—oh, Judge, somehow I knew you were there, even when I was unconscious. It was only the thought of leaving you alone and bereft again—"

Hardcastle interrupted, "You'd never use a word like 'bereft'! We're supposed to sound like we would have in one of the episodes."

"Shut up, this is the big scene." McCormick held a hand to his head. "I knew you were right here with me, through three weeks of coma and several night-time angst-fests. Somehow, I knew you wouldn't let me go into that good night, so I raged, raged against the dying of the light."

"Nice touch," said the judge approvingly. "Well, while you're laying in that bed--"

"It's 'lying'. You're the guy with the college education; you should use correct grammar," said McCormick, searching for the television remote.

The judge found it for him and handed it over. "Yeah, but it's dialogue, so it could be a colloquial use."

Mark shook his head. "I'm not buying that. Hey! Wasn't Frank supposed to be in this story at some point?"

Just then, Lieutenant Harper burst into the hospital room, looked around frantically and gasped, "Sorry I'm late. Is there still time for my speech?" He glanced at the bottom of the page, and said, "Oh, come on, just one more paragraph so I can—"

finis


End file.
